Don't be a Hypocrite
by Indigo Code
Summary: Long after the events of Portal II, Chell has been taken in by the personification of America and England. All goes well, until fate causes Wheatley to return. Oddly enough, England seems to hate him more than the former test subject. Noticing this, poor, little Wheatley tries to make amends. Humanoid!Wheatley. One-Shot!


"Hello?"

"… Are you there?"

"If you are – Are you gonna' open the door?"

"… Please? It's pretty important… So just…"

_"… Hello…?"_

Two minutes.

Two minutes and thirty-two seconds – he counted. Yet, not an answer was uttered to him.

Leaning by a door, under the flickering silver spotlight of a faulty porch lantern, the marvelously massive moon by his back against the glittering stars, Wheatley stood alone.

He never liked to be alone.

Three minutes went by. Again, not an answer, let alone, a peep escaped from the other side. With the exception for the twittering insects lured the lantern, everything stood still – silent.

If he knew anything, the silence would've suggested that this was a brilliantly opportune time to leave, for, apparently, the occupants weren't fond of guests.

But when has Wheatley known anything?

So, he waited. Even after four minutes and eleven seconds, he waited. Now expressing a peculiar interest in his leather cladded feet, he began to feel nervy – perhaps, even a bit dejected.

"I'm still here, you know…"

With those magic words gloomily spoken, the door swung ajar.

His spirits high again, Wheatley hastily dusted his sky-colored vest and greeted the occupant with a rather exaggerated smile. Though, the occupant seemed cross, his arms folded over his chest in an annoyed fashion. His eyes, two emerald pits of fire blazing with vexation. His irritation sent Wheatley's anxiety over the edge as the corners of his cheery smile receded.

"Do you not know what time it is?" The occupant growled, his English accent – a characteristic both he and Wheatley shared – terribly stressed.

"I'm j-just here to talk. It'll only t-take a few minutes of your time." Wheatley stuttered.

_"No."_ The occupant then slammed the door. That is, until Wheatley's hand interjected, allowing it to crush between the door and the edging. A yelp squeaked out as he withdrew it and protectively cradled it in his other hand.

"Please, just listen to me, mate!"

"You've given yourself a lot of trouble for a 'little talk'. If you can't even control your own lunacy, why should I even invite you into my own home?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm quite in control of my sanity now. No need to be so harsh about it."

"Why don't you bother someone else with your stupidity? I don't need a _moron_ to keep me awake at ten o'clock in the night."

_"I'm not a moron!"_ Wheatley snapped at him, his cerulean eyes mimicking the occupant's blazing pits of fire. Catching himself in a livid state, he ran his fingers through his matted hair to relieve his tension.

"Look," He grumbled, seemingly irked, "I'm not here to fight. Just listen to me, and then I'll leave."

The occupant thought his hostile request over. Pouting, he invited him in.

_"Talk quickly."_

Stumbling in, Wheatley bashed his forehead against the doorframe, failing to recall about his abnormal height compared to the others. After recovering, he successfully evaded the obstacle, now looking down at the occupant from a lengthy stature distance.

"You don't know how much effort it took to help her pull through. She couldn't sleep for _years_ without suffering a panic-attack. And now you decide to just come back, after what _you've_ done? _You mindless twit!_ You should be thankful that she hasn't beaten the ever-loving crap out of you!"

"I know… It's difficult not to think about what happened before… I'm… _I'm sorry..."_ mumbled Wheatley, ache tugging at his heart as he let out a grief-stricken sniffle.

"She may have forgiven you – but 'sorry' isn't going to cut it for me, no matter how many times you say it. It's too late to say sorry."

"You hate me that much, don't you, Al – Alf –?"

_"Damn – bloody right I hate you!"_

"And it's _'Arthur'_, you idiot! Don't you think after a week you'd remember _my own_ _bloody name?!"_

Wheatley somehow remained atypically mute for a minute or two, his head hanging low with copious shame. With eyes shut tight, saddening memories flashed by in the dark. These memories clouded his mind, feeling so realistic that he felt as if he was reliving them.

* * *

_"DUDE, ARE YOU ALRIGHT?!"_

_That wasn't the best question to ask someone after they almost got crushed with a car, especially when you're the one who almost flattened them like a pancake with a three-thousand pound chunk of metal._

_"DON'T WORRY, BRO! I'M A HERO!"_

_The loud American fellow went into rescue mode, lifting the unresponsive Wheatley off the asphalt. Even with his eyes wide with chilling terror, not even a scratch surfaced on the inexpressive man's skin. In fact, it wasn't even clear that the car even _hit_ him._

_"What – What just – I… I can't…" Wheatley stuttered, fading out of his state of shock and back into full mindfulness._

_"Shut up, and don't move! _I'll_ save the day!" With the blink of an eye, he found himself sitting in the passenger's seat of the car, his gangling legs digging into his chest from the lack of space._

_"You're lucky you made it out! You could've lost a leg or something worse!"_

What comforting words,_ thought Wheatley, sardonic, _Wait…

"YOU ALMOST KILLED ME!" _He then screeched, startling the man to the point where the car swerved abruptly, before he managed to gain control of the wheel again._

_"Freaking calm it down! You're not dead!" The man reassured Wheatley, chuckling timidly._

_Sadly, for poor, little Wheatley, _this _was his introduction into the surface world. After drifting in space for an agonizingly long amount of time, fate – or a meteor – caused him to return to earth, right back where he started – the facility._

_He managed to escape from the laboratories, fully intact. Though, he never knew how much the surface differed from the cold, tumble-down walls and the lifeless chambers, not to mention how equally treacherous it could be._

_"Where are we going?!" He shrieked, a bit quieter in voice._

_"My place," The man casually answered, not expressing another word for the rest of the ride._

_With another blink, he caught himself seated in a Victorian home, a glass of water between his trembling hands._

_"Well, ah… T-Thanks... Really, you didn't have to do this." said Wheatley, modestly._

_"No problem, dude. I owe ya' for the accident," The man coolly replied, wolfing down his fourth burger. Previously, after Wheatley's episode of fear, the man revealed possessing the name of "Alfred". Alfred F. Jones – The "F" standing for "Freedom", as he righteously claimed. A strange man he was to inexperienced, little Wheatley, an individual who never met a human other than… the speechless woman who lacked a name. He wondered how Alfred could possibly scarf down so many hamburgers without poisoning himself with calories. He also wondered how he could retain that flamboyant voice without wearing his vocal chords so much to the point where they were no longer useful – or how that odd cowlick-thing sticking out from the top of his head could stay up like that._

_"Not to be rude, or anything – but isn't that the fourth burger-thing you've eaten?"_

_"You're point being…?"_

_"Oh! No – No! It's not a bad thing! It's… ah… It's a bit astonishing how you can eat… so much of that… H-Have you been training?"_

_"You know…" Alfred strayed from the topic, his words muffled over his unsophisticated chewing noises, "you sound a lot like a guy I know… A lot. Well, you're not as much as a stuffy wuss-puss like him – but, ya' know…"_

_"Really? I didn't actually think there'd be people like me! Is there any chance I could meet him?"_

_At this point in time, the phrase "speak of the devil" would've been fitting, for the aforementioned wuss-puss arrived, looking quite irritated._

_"Alfred, what have I told you about bringing in street-bums without my consent?" He groaned, slapping a hand to his forehead at the sight of Wheatley._

_"Yo', Artie! Meet… _whateveryournameis!_ I almost ran him over with my car today!" Alfred introduced him, sounding eerily cheery in the last sentence._

_"I'm not surprised…" griped "Artie", under his breath, veering his head towards Wheatley. The urge to giggle struck him when he caught sight of Artie's rather… "luxuriantly thick" eyebrows, but he choked it down to keep from offending him._

_"We'll hand you a telephone so you can call for transportation."_

_"Oh, that's not really necessary. I don't actually… _have _anyone to contact."_

_Artie inaudibly sighed at this, mentally slapping his palm to his face._

_"Can we at least get a name?"_

_"Ah, yes! Of course! It's… _It's 'Wheatley'."

_As if being stuck against the head with a lead pipe, both Artie and Alfred shared an expression of bafflement at the sound of his name._

_"Alfred…" Artie whispered, not daring to raise his voice, "… where did you find him?"_

_"I…" Alfred began, "… I just…"_

"You._ Where are you from?" Artie required an answer from the puzzled man on the couch._

_"Well… It's not a very… safe place. In fact, it's rather –"_

"Is it Aperture Science?" _Alfred blurted, until Artie hastily cuffed a hand over his mouth._

_As astounded as the two, Wheatley gazed right through them, absolutely petrified of how they were even familiar with that purgatory of a place._

"... How did you know…?"

_Like a deer in headlights, they seemed completely horrified with his response._

_"… We'll be right back."_

_Retreating to the kitchen, they resumed the conversation in secret. Wheatley placed a hand on his chin, thinking over how his name stunned them to such an extraordinary extent. Sure it wasn't a common name, but it's not terrible enough to send two people into full-blown shock. Luckily, their conversation wasn't entirely inaudible, as he could grasp a few fragmented phrases:_

_"How is he here?!"_

_"… But she said he…"_

_"That's him! Right there! Right outside our door…"_

_"… But didn't he…?"_

_"He's the…"_

_"Oh, God…" _

"YOU LITTLE GIT!"

_The door burst open. A fuming Artie stood before him, a manic inferno raging inside of him like a wild-fire, before he lunged at Wheatley with terrifying power. With Wheatley thanking the heavens, Alfred rushed in, holding back Artie before he could get the chance to snap some limbs in two._

_"HOW DARE YOU COME HERE, AFTER ALL THE HELL YOU'VE RAISED! YOU BLOODY WAN – ALFRED, LET ME GO ALREADY!" He screamed, flailing his arms more than violently, attempting to snatch Wheatley's neck in his white-knuckled fists. The fear of him escaping Alfred's hold on him wasn't existent, due to Alfred's unnatural strength. _

_"What did I do?! You don't even know who I –"_

_"YOU DON'T EVEN CARE, DO YOU?! YOU DON'T EVEN CARE ABOUT WHAT YOU'VE DONE?!"_

_"Please try to calm down! I'm sure there's an explanation for all this! Just calm down!"_

_"DON'T EVEN _TRY _TO LIE TO US! SHE TOLD US EVERYTHING ABOUT YOUR STUPID, LITTLE STUNTS!"_

_"I'm not lying! Just – Please! I – Wait, 'she'? She actually escaped?! She's here?!"_

_"I SWEAR, IF ALFRED WASN'T HOLDING ME BACK, I'D K – "_

Click!

_That one, simple sound hushed the thunderous roaring of death threats. Though, Alfred and Artie never expected this plainly discreet noise before, they now dreaded its arrival with every second of their lives. They winced, preparing for the absolute worst._

_It was the front door._

_A young woman, roughly about the same age as the two, collectively arrived after a long day of working at her profession. She arranged herself to head upstairs and greet her roommates with a typically silent welcome. However, instead of preforming the usual welcome routine, she froze in her tracks, observing the mystifying situation with enquiring gray eyes._

_They all became statues, petrified in time. No one even risked making a single move. _

_Wheatley made an attempt to recall the woman, receiving vivid memories of a combatant in orange, armed with a physics-shattering weapon, holding on for dear life as the lack of gravity took its toll on the facility. The same woman whom Wheatley wanted to rid numerous times, and almost succeeded in doing so._

_"It's you…"_

_Mouth agape, she stared at her former comrade in amazement, possibly fear. _

_"How is that possible?"_

_Wheatley broke the stillness, making his way over to her, step by step. With a closer look at her features, his eyes widened, and he whispered another line._

_"You really did escape."_

_His gaze then shifted to her arms, of which they exposed wounds mostly healed by time, though, they stood out prominently against her skin. They weren't simple cuts and bruises from everyday life. Faded gashes, blackened spots, soot staining the pigment. By the looks of this, she went through hell and back._

_ This was what he had done._

_A wave of grief overwhelmed him. He began to stutter again, every shaky, incomprehensible word carrying a heavy sense of wretchedness._

_"… I – Did I…? I'm – I didn't – mean…"_

_He then threw his arms around her, burying his head in her shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably._

_"I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry_I'msorry!"

_"I'm sorry I did this! Please – I – I'm sorry this happened to you! Please – Understand that I never meant for this to…"_

_Even though Wheatley couldn't see it, the lady's terrified expression morphed into sadness. Tears streamed down her face. She clutched onto the back of his shirt, clenching her teeth together with stress –_

"I don't hate you."

_Immediately, the abysmal-feeling gentleman recoiled and let her go, an expression of shock crossing his face._

_Those weren't Wheatley's words._

_She fled up the staircase without missing a beat, her first four words echoing in the back of Wheatley's mind._

* * *

"Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to talk?!" demanded Arthur, losing his already nonexistent tolerance.

"They… They told me about all the… country matter."

"What? Who told – ?" He then sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Alfred told you, didn't he?"

"He's America, right?" Wheatley questioned him, his eyes flickering open again.

"Sadly… yes."

"And you're England?"

"... Yes."

"And… uh… They told me about the… Revela–"

_"The Revolution…"_ Arthur lost his focus, gazing at the miniscule, wire art Old Glory flag on his wall – a five-year-old Christmas gift from Alfred to him.

"You know… It's strange, really…" Wheatley muttered, "After thinking about it… It kinda' feels like we have a little more in common than we assume…"

With that statement in mind, Arthur broke from his daze.

"What the blo – _Stop talking nonsense!"_

"No, I'm not. Think about it. We've both lost it at some point in our lives; we wanted more authority, right? And we both hurt the people we cared about…"

"I don't care about Alf –"

"It's too blatant to deny it, mate. Trust me." Wheatley smirked at Arthur's stubbornness. With a deep breath, he continued:

"You say you hate me – but you couldn't even control your own rationality at one point. I call that hypocrisy. And I'll admit – I'm not very fond of it."

Muteness may be one thing, but a sensible speech like that wasn't typical in the bumbling Wheatley, and Arthur knew this as well. He furrowed his bushy brows at him, dubious of his levelheaded words. But his skepticism didn't last long.

"Perhaps… you may have a point. I'll do my best to act fair. But I'll only do it if you promise too." He held a hand out to him, offering an agreement.

That silly smile returned to his features. Shaking his hand, Wheatley sealed the deal.

"It's a promise."

The comfort on Arthur's face quickly dwindled, his usually stuffiness taking its place –

_"We're not friends."_

As opposed to acting offended at this rather aggressive comment, Wheatley gave him his usual happy-go-lucky chuckle.

"… And I can live with that."


End file.
